


Lord Baratheon, Betrothed

by Draco_sollicitus



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Misunderstandings, Post Season 8, Wishful Thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 11:07:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18827437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draco_sollicitus/pseuds/Draco_sollicitus
Summary: Arya hears whispers as she travels; whispers of family and foe, of war and peace, and of Lord Baratheon of the Stormlands.She tries to ignore the latter but can’t — especially when the news of his betrothal reaches her.Sandor Clegane didn’t convince her to live for nothing, so Arya heads to Storm’s End, but to see Gendry one last time or convince him to leave with her is anyone’s guess.





	Lord Baratheon, Betrothed

**Author's Note:**

> Want some slightly pointless, slightly angsty Gendrya fluff? Here you go!!!!!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> (If d&d can make everyone act out of character so can I, but this time to our benefit)

Lord Baratheon is betrothed.

Arya Stark hears as much in an inn, almost three months after the siege of King’s Landing. Her brother is north of the wall now, and there’s a rumor he killed his lover. 

There’s also a rumor he  _ didn’t,  _ and they’re currently playing house in the north; Arya isn’t sure which ending she prefers.

Today, she’s in the Westerlands, studying the land that built the Lannisters, and she’s in a shoddy little inn on a pleasant night that has no right to be pleasant, not when she sits at a table to eat her stew and hears a man turn to a friend and say, “ _ Did you hear Lord Baratheon is betrothed? _ ”

The teasing answer of “ _ Let’s hope this time he don’t start a bloody war, _ ” sets her teeth on edge, and Arya abandons her stew to stomp upstairs and collect her things. She doesn’t stay the night at the inn, and instead sleeps out in the open, hidden behind some trees. It’s easier to rest here, where whispers can’t catch her.

She’s been caught by some whispers in the past month:

_ Tyrion Lannister stays at Winterfell  _  - her sister told her as much, but still, it’s not something she wants to hear from a drunkard on the road.

_ There’s nothing west of Westeros, but people are getting on ships anyway  _ \-- tempting. Still so tempting, to sail over the edge of the world.

_ They say he pushed him through the wall and fell into the flames with him  _ \-- she can’t think about that one for too long.

_ Lord Baratheon traveled to King’s Landing for his official crowning. Good fellow. Handsome, too. Tipped well  _ \-- she finds the whispers of Gendry the hardest to avoid, for some reason. Like the gods want her to hear about him. 

And now he’s betrothed. 

She spins her knife in the darkness, glaring up at the stars, hating everything and everyone for making her care which bloody lord marries which bloody lady. She sits up and pockets the knife, and her horse looks up with tired interest.

“Get some rest, girl,” she instructs the beast pointlessly. It’s nice to talk to someone who can’t whisper back at least. “We’re traveling in the morning.”

Arya takes her own advice then, because she refuses to be a total hypocrite.

***

_ Foolish,  _ she whispers to herself as she nears Storm’s End.  _ Foolish,  _ she whispers right back in agreement as she creeps up to the gate. She doesn’t know why she’s here, doesn’t know what she wants (and it’s a lie, a necessary one - she knows what she wants, as it’s the only thing she’s ever wanted besides revenge).

A slip of her hood and flash of her family crest has the guard scrambling for the door. A small bag of gold has him swearing not to announce her.

If only they knew what she really was, Arya muses as the guard counts the gold meticulously. For all they know, she could be here to assassinate the lord of the keep. 

But the guard says something while she walks away that has her pausing, something he whispers to the other guard on station:

“ _ Lord Gendry said the gate would always be open to Lady Stark. Not sure why she thought we needed a bribe, but I’m not complainin’.” _

Something painfully close to hope, a pest of an emotion resurrected by Sandor Clegane, flutters in her chest, and Arya moves with more purpose through the entrance of the castle. It’s alright, as castles go. It’s no Winterfell, and there are a few too many hunting trophies and furs for her taste (it isn’t even that cold here, so she isn’t sure why they’re necessary). But still, it’s a nice castle, and Arya remembers again how kind Gendry’s offer was, even if he probably didn’t mean it.

But, Arya loves a fight. And this could be viewed as a fight -- with a different prize than normal, she supposes. She snorts, thinking about a frail, thin lady going up against her in a boxing ring, in the pits, in the courtyard, fighting for the honor of Gendry Baratheon’s hand in marriage like a pair of drunken knights jousting over a maiden. It amuses her for a moment, but then she grits her teeth again because she  _ really  _ doesn’t want it to come to that.

As she nears the main hall, she hears more whispers, and she ignores them as they don’t herald danger. Arya slips between the large columns of the hall, towards the dais where the lord’s seat is erected, when a whisper slips past her block.

“ _...very kind, indeed, to invite us all to the wedding.” _

_ “Haven’t seen a party like that in years, have we?” _

Her blood turns to ice in her veins as she studies the wreckage in the hall.

Chairs thrown about listlessly, carcasses littered on the table, plucked bird bones and sides of boar. Several servants cleaning diligently, idly gossiping and discussing the day.

She forces her breathing to calm. This isn’t the first horrifying wedding she’s stumbled across; and, all things considered, it’s certainly not the worst. 

_ So why does she feel like vomiting?  _

A very pretty woman steps into view, her gown sweeping out behind her. 

“Leave that for now,” she instructs in a pleasant accent, her smile full and eyes kind. This is a lady, Arya realizes.  _ The  _ lady. The lady of Storm’s End. “Come and dance with us.”

“The same could be said to you,” a familiar voice teases her, and Arya stiffens, a hand gripping a column for dear life. Gendry appears from around the corner, dressed in finer clothes than she’s ever seen the blacksmith wear, his face clean and hair growing in. “Milady.”

The sharp intake of breath is involuntary; she imagines the way Gendry’s head turns towards her also appears to be involuntary. Somehow, he can see her in the darkness, in her hiding spot, and their eyes lock for a painful, burning moment.

Arya chooses to run.

She sprints through the hall, the way she came, her face burning in shame, and she refuses to stop --  _ why did she come here? What foolish decision was that? Whose was it? Not Arya Stark. Let that arse marry whoever he wants, she doesn’t give half a damn  _ \-- not at the cries of guards, not at the pain in her heart.

One word freezes her to the spot.

“Arya!”

Her feet stagger to a halt. The inconvenient fear she’s relearned since Clegane asked her to live surges in her throat, but she pushes back against it.

She isn’t a runner. She refuses to run from this. She’s survived death more times than she can count. She’s Arya bloody Stark, a Faceless Man, the Night Kingslayer, the Destroyer of Death, and the recently Unburnt. She can do whatever she  _ bloody  _ wants.

She isn’t sure if she wants to face him.

She faces him.

“Gendry.” She nods at him as she turns. He addressed her by her first name, after all — she avoids his title and his gaze in response. “Good to see you.” 

She turns around again.

“Arya, wait.”

For whatever reason she does.

“Let me talk to you, please,” he begs, and her brow furrows; why does  _ he  _ get to beg? He begged once, and she broke his heart. He should know better by now. “Here, where it’s private?”

Against her better judgement, she follows him into a side room, clearly a room for servants to rest and sup, judging by the rough hewn chairs and table, the small fire crackling in the corner.

“It’s good to see you.” Gendry speaks first, when the door is closed. Arya eyes the window, now a very valid form of exit.

She takes several deep breaths before speaking, and she doesn’t acknowledge what he said.

“I suppose that was the Lady Baratheon.” Arya glances at him, from the corner of her eye.

“It was.” Gendry’s staring at her and it isn’t bloody fair; she just reminded him of his wife, and he’s staring at her like he still thinks she’s beautiful.

He isn’t allowed to think that anymore.

“Congratulations.” She means it, and she needs him to know it. 

“For what?” He frowns at her, and she sighs through her nose, hoping it doesn’t show in her expression.

“You got what you wanted,” Arya tells him firmly, spitting the words out before the poison can sink into her blood. “A pretty title, a pretty castle, a pretty wife. I’m happy for you. Honestly.”

“A pretty--” He scoffs and looks over his shoulder, then back to her. “Arya, what are you on about?”

“Your wife. The Lady Baratheon. She’s very pretty.” Pretty like Sansa’s always been. Pretty like Daenerys was. Pretty like Jayne, pretty like Myrcella. Pretty, pretty, pretty.

Arya’s never been pretty, but Gendry thought she was  _ beautiful,  _ and it had felt like so much more than pretty, a word just as much for a good blade or a forest fire or the sea as it was for girls and women. 

It tastes like the ash of King’s Landing in her mouth now.

“She is,” Gendry confirms with a slow nod, and she nods back if only to have something to do. “...But she isn’t my wife.”

“The lady of Storm’s End isn’t your wife?” Arya snaps. “Come off it, Gendry.”

“She isn’t.” He’s smiling now. The bastard. The  _ actual  _ bastard. “She’s my cousin.”

“She’s your--”

“My cousin. In a way. Easier to call it that, I suppose. It turns out that Robert had a few more bastards here in the Stormlands that hid from the crown. Lady Reyna Baratheon married one of those bastards today. Wesley Baratheon.”

“Oh.” She feels foolish; she hasn’t felt foolish in years, and yet, here she is with a blush on her cheek like a babe. 

“Wesley’s claim is less than mine, as no Stark or Ser recognizes him, but he grew up here, knows the land, knows the people. He’s a good man. The council legitimized him two months ago. I believe they sent a raven to Winterfell.”

“I wasn’t there,” Arya admits, her voice faint to her own ears. “I was … traveling.”

“I heard.” His gaze is level, one she can’t quite escape from. “Your sister responded to my raven.”

“She did.” Arya says it flatly, not a question. It sounds like Sansa, poking her elegant nose where it doesn’t belong. 

“Said you were traveling, and hadn’t left a hint of where you’d be traveling to.” That wasn’t true; Arya often told Sansa of her whereabouts. The raven would never arrive until long after Arya had moved on, but she liked her sister to know the pack survived. “I sent ravens to all the halls of Westeros.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because I wanted to see you, that’s why.”

“Who wants to see me?” Arya snorts and shakes her head. “Also, you should know by now that I don’t willingly enter the halls of other houses these days.”

He doesn’t say anything, but the smirk on his face as he gestures to the room they stand in says plenty. She fights the urge to push him like they’re still children. It’s a tough battle.

“I guess I’ll be going then.” She bows stiffly, and Gendry darte out to catch her arm.

“Don’t.” It’s a testament to their friendship that he doesn’t lose that hand. “You came here for a reason. What’s that reason?”

“None of your business,” she snaps, wrenching her arm free because something about Gendry makes her feel twelve years old and always has. 

She can feel his eyes on her face, and she can smell him from this distance, heated metal and soap and something that no fancy lord’s clothes could ever change. It smells like cold nights spent huddled together with him at her back, smells like soft smiles on the darkest day, smells like loyalty and friendship. Gendry smells like home.

His next words hit her like a ballista bolt.

“Three months ago, I told you I loved you. I meant it.”

She can’t meet his eyes, merely stares at the stones beneath her feet and hopes they swallow her whole. 

“Did you think I’d forget so quickly?” Gendry doesn’t draw any nearer, and she feels like she’s on fire, and she knows that feeling so well now, and it makes her skin itch from nerves. She hates it. 

“Come on, Arya. You know Baratheons don’t give up on Stark girls that easy.”

“That’s not funny.” Her lips twitch anyway.

“I shouldn’t have proposed like that. I … I know it made you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry. But Arya, if you’d let me, I’d spent the rest of my life following you around, as a lord, or your servant, or your friend.”

_ What about family?  _ She wants to ask. It’s the question she came here to ask, after all.

“It was strange to be told I was more than I was so quickly after the Battle, but I know who I am.” He licks his lip nervously. “And I’m not a lord and I’m not a blacksmith, but I’m something in between. And no matter what, I know that I love you. However you need me to. But I know who I am now.” 

“Me too.” Her voice doesn’t rise above a whisper; she isn’t sure it can at this point.

“I have a feeling that means a lot more for you than it does for me.” Gendry lets out a breath, a tight, tense noise. “And I bet there’s a good reason for it, too, somewhere in all those stories you won’t tell me.” His eyes flicker to her side, where her traveling cloak and tunic cover the scars only he’s seen. 

“...I’d like to tell you.”

“And I’d like to listen.” Gendry pulls out a chair and sits, glancing pointedly at the other chair in the room. 

Arya shakes her head. “Listen later.”

“Right. You must be tired, and--”

She sweeps across the floor as swiftly as she can and climbs up on the chair, a knee on either side of his legs, and she catches his jaw up in her hands, marveling at the sharpness of it under her palms, at the hint of softness creeping in to the swell of his cheeks now that he’s eating regularly.

“Arya.” A prayer. An absolution.

“Later,” she assures him, letting her eyes drift shut as her lips press to his again. 

They kiss until she needs to breathe, and when he laughs at her gasp for air, it’s an equally breathless laugh.

“Does this mean you love me too?” Gendry asks shyly. Gendry, shy. That’s something new. Arya isn’t sure she hates it.

“Maybe.” He’s laughing again when she kisses him, and she allows herself to think of it as home.

**Author's Note:**

> The Gendrya one shots continue!!!! Thanks for reading!


End file.
